Come Back Running
by Petaldancer
Summary: I knew that you would return old boy-" Holmes chuckled weakly, coughing blood into the doctor's white shirt. Watson gripped his shoulders tighter, almost crushing his seemingly fragile frame, the detective smiled "-come back to me. Running."
1. Chapter 1: Left to the Dust

Hey! First Sherlock Holmes fanfiction! Hope this goes well....

Chapter One: Left to the Dust

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The room stank of month-old dust; clothes were strewn across the floor, papers littered the desks and various furniture, hazardous chemicals in sloppy flasks, and bottles. So many bottles. Alcohol of all kinds. Everything smelled of alcohol and tobacco. It was dark, the sunlight smothered by heavy curtains, and a loud snore from a happily sedated dog reverberated in the large room. The carpet was stained, cigars near the couch that they had rolled off of the night before.

In an unorganized corner of a room slept a lump of blankets and unwashed clothing. The snoring from Gladstone, the dog, finally reached his sensitive ears.

Hangover, hangover? Why did he have a hangover? The lump slapped himself with a pillow to cover his hearing, attempting to block the roaring beast. Groan. The pillow was completely and utterly ineffective and so, Sherlock Holmes opened his sleep-covered eyes. He scanned the room briefly, and attempted a drunken shout.

"Watson?" but the room had no response "Watson? Watson!" He rolled under the pile of messy covers and winced as his brain pounded into to skull. Sluggish, more so than usual, he noted. The scotch bottle by the bed, he picked it up and groaned when he saw the small bits of white powder that coated the bottom. He dropped the bottle and shut his tired eyes, groaning again.

"Trust the doctor to slip a healthy dose in my alcohol to keep me sleeping like a dead man," Holmes mumbled to himself and then crawled out from under the den. Stumbling towards the bottles of tonics to search for the sweet release (otherwise known as laudanum) he knew Watson would set on the shelf for him, despite the doctor's obvious betrayal. He wasn't talking about the drugging of course; he probably deserved that for experimenting on Gladstone so often…

Holmes sighed a little when he finally found the antidote with a note attached to it, "_take only half a dose—W." _Half a dose, half a dose. He searched for a spoon to take the medicine with and then sat down on one of the old couches.

Married. His dear best friend was married. The very word shivered down his spine like he was catching a summer cold. Rubbing his hands through his hair furiously, he sprung up and paced around the room. Married, he was married. Married to Mary, ha, that rhymed. Covering his face, Holmes groaned loudly, he must have taken too much Laudanum. The detective dropped the spoon and stumbled to the table with case files scattered across it. Picking up files and throwing them over his shoulder, he sighed.

"Missing person, missing jewels, missing dead bodies…" He sighed for the umpteenth time that morning, nothing to distract him from the frustrating notion that Watson was married. Married. Never to live with him again, chastise him on his bad habits. None of that. He should be happy for him, but he couldn't be; the mere idea of marriage disgusted him to no end. Love? He didn't know it. Never loved in his life, at least not romantically.

He sighed again; he missed Watson, but what could he do? Make Mary's life miserable? That would just anger the doctor to no end and drive them further apart. He already tried to pry them apart, even physically once (he got a black eye for that, but it was worth the try.) His stubborn nature wouldn't allow it, but now it seemed he had to accept the change. They were on their honeymoon today, of course he wasn't invited, and although he already deduced where they were vacationing, they were entirely too far away for him to follow now. Why was that? Well, why did Watson drug him? Of course of course. Holmes lifted one of the heavy curtains that covered the sunlight peeking through the windows and saw the dirty streets of London bustling about.

He was bored.

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Mrs. Hudson pinched the bridge of her nose. Standing in front of the oaken doors of Holmes' rooms, she couldn't help but start to form a headache. Her need of tidiness and overall a nice clean, dust free, spotless atmosphere always reared its claws at her tenant.

But she was concerned, he hadn't played the violin in strange hours, she didn't hear gunshots echoing from his room and scaring the mice back into the walls, there were no crashes from when he drops flasks on accident during his experiments. He hadn't come out of the room for a month and the food she set in trays were not touched.

He hadn't come out of that room since the dear doctor went on his honeymoon with his newly wed. Last time she heard, they were somewhere in America, leaving poor Holmes in the dust (literally.) And Mrs. Hudson couldn't just stand by and watch the detective starve himself in her apartment, and so, after forcing her need for cleanliness back into the corners of her mind, she took a deep breath, knocked sharply, and then after a pause, opened the door.

"Mr. Holmes, I—" she dropped the tray of biscuits and tea.

The hot liquid splattered across the floor and the delicate china shattered. The room was in total chaos, more so than usual. Shelves were torn down, papers were ripped into shreds, and flasks were carelessly strewn across the floor, their contents pouring out from their bellies. The curtains were torn off their racks, the table was flipped over, and the windows were broken.

And in the center of the room, laid a body. Dried blood that was practically brown caked around the body to its knees, and the pungent smell of rotting flesh signified it had died a long time ago. Dark messy locks, it was in one of Holmes' black overcoats, his shoes, his clothes, but it was lying face down. Surely it couldn't be. But it looked like him. At least, from the angle she was standing. She didn't think to scream, she had to know.

Carefully, she climbed around the piles of trash, papers, and clothes. Cautious not to mess with anything that might be evidence, she placed her hands on the body's shoulder, and used all her might to roll the dead weight over. The head lolled about, the body stiff and cold, and the jacket heavy on its frame, she finally turned it over after several minutes, trying to get good leverage and praying under her breath, her head down. She looked up.

She screamed. She screamed and screamed.

She scrambled away in fear and screamed.

-

-

-

-

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

-

-

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The room was crowded with the Scotland Yard. Private eyes swarmed every part of the extremely chaotic room, looking for evidence that lead to the death of Great Britain's, the worlds, best detective. Mrs. Hudson was holding an officer, sobbing into his shoulder and refused to look at the body being examined on the ground. Some officers were frantic, yelling at lower ranks to move, shoving through as doctors rushed to Holmes' body, checking for the time of death. While other officers stood in silence, looking down, taking of their caps in respect, teary eyed, but not one sob except for the muffled cries of Mrs. Hudson. The rain fell silent on the roof.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson!" the addressed lady turned towards the doctor who called her. "This is not Sherlock Holmes." The man smiled, almost grinned in relief, although immediately stopped when he realized there was still a dead man in their presence. One of the officers guided the landlady towards the body as she eagerly discovered if this statement were true. Holmes was not dead?

She peered down to find the doctor dabbing off a thin disguise from the man's face. His fingers were smudging the make-up and blood flaked off along with the powder, the light a doctor flashed in one of his eyes illuminated an unknown face. She crinkled her eyebrows in concentration, had she seen this man before? Passing through the pictures of visages in her memory, she did not recognize him.

"I've never seen this man before."

"Are you sure my lady? His identity is crucial to determining what happened here. Holmes is missing, we do not know if he is dead or alive. We can only hope—"

"Yes, I don't recall him at all." Mrs. Hudson cut Inspector Lestrade off before he could finish his sentence. She then took a closer look at the man, overcoming her fear of the dead body to catch a glimpse.

The man did indeed have brown locks; similar to Holmes, the same body structure, but differences in the slightest, and olive green eyes she wondered why she hadn't noticed before.

The man looked peaceful once a doctor closed his lifeless eyes, and Mrs. Hudson sighed in guilty relief. She was not one to celebrate death, even a stranger's, but she was glad he wasn't Holmes.

"Lestrade."

"Yes?"

"Look what was on the man's person"

The inspector turned towards the cold body and kneeled forward, picking out a possibly silver chain around the dead man. Carefully looping the chain off his neck, Lestrade examined the bright green sapphire centerpiece that it held. A beautiful, most likely expensive, stone was perfectly cut and set into the middle of a pair of entwined silver snakes. It gleamed proudly in the little light that penetrated the raining skies and through the window. The officers around him couldn't help but admire the jewelry.

"This is quite the masterpiece…" Lestrade mumbled to himself, "It must be worth at least—"

"More than your family could ever accumulate." Loud shoes clinked on the wooden floors. A black silken dress, ruffled in the back, a corset tie that crisscrossed in its usual fashion, up-do red curly hair, and the ever-present smirk. Irene Adler walked confidently into the murder scene.

The Yard blatantly stared at her; of course her famed beauty would attract these men. Her smirk grew and she headed towards the Holmes look-alike before perching, a delicate hand placed on her face and a gloved elbow on one of her knees. She was not fazed much by the dead body on the ground, as she was used to such gory scenes by now and her keen eyes scanned the room for any evidence as to what happened.

"What," Mrs. Hudson sputtered, "are you doing here?"

"Helping you find Holmes of course." Irene nimbly got up spun around, her dress brushing the floor. She paced a little before settling into the still standing armchair Holmes normally used and crossing her legs. She smiled a little and then began her story.

"A couple mornings ago, I happened to be in my carriage when a beggar off the street ran up to the door:

...

...

"_To the usual place please." Irene waved at the coachman as she sat on the hard leather seats._

"_Yes M'am." As the carriage had started to move, she heard a loud bump along the outside of the door. Looking out, she saw a young street boy rubbing his head and then getting up, brushing the dirt off his pants._

"_Miss Irene Adler?"_

"_Yes boy?" The scruffy child reached down into his pockets, and after some difficulty, pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper. _

"_A really strange man told me to give this to you." The boy wrinkled his forehead and then attempted to straighten his dirty and messy hair a little bit. _

_Irene daintily took hold of the paper and reminded herself to read it later. First, ask about the strange man._

"_What did the strange man look like?"_

"_He was wearing a ripped black overcoat with lots of holes in it. That wasn't the weird part though; he had a nightgown on under the coat! He had a pipe too, smelled of tobacco."_

_A nightgown? Irene looked amused. Sounded like Holmes to her._

"_Did the strange man have brown, short hair, about 5'9, dark brown eyes?"_

"_Sounds like him, oh! He was wearing dark colored glasses, so I didn't know what color his eyes were. But he was weird, who wears dark colored glasses when it's raining, especially for days?"_

"_Men of insanity, or men of genius." Irene mumbled to herself. _

_ "Huh?"_

_ "Nothing my dear, here is a shilling for your troubles." She smiled when the boy accepted it eagerly and ran off._

_ She looked at the crumpled paper in her hands and slowly smoothed it out in the darkness of the carriage. "Can't see…" she mumbled more to herself. Irene held the paper out into the bare amount of sunlight-_

_..._

_..._

"What?"

"What what?" Irene inquired

"What did it say?" The inspector growled out loud for the amount of time wasted on the trivial details she had in the story.

"Here." She handed the scrap of paper to Lestrade.

_Trouble is coming. Get away. Five days, Don't come find me. Watson in trouble.-SH_

The inspector read the message outloud for everyone to hear.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Mrs. Hudson sighed, frustrated.

"It means," Irene solemnly stated, "that he was in trouble, and apparently so was I."

How Holmes even knew she was in London was a mystery to her, but she shouldn't be surprised, he was Holmes after all.

"I would assume that Watson got a similar message as well?" She searched the room for the trusty and loyal doctor to poke his head out of the crowd of people in the room.

"He isn't here." Mrs. Hudson stated, "He's currently still on his honeymoon with Mary in America."

"Honeymoon? He's married? America? " The landlady nodded.

"Poor Holmes…How do we even reach him if he's in America?" Irene commented. Holmes was nothing without his partner. Not just with the cases either, but personally without Watson, Holmes was a mess.

Speaking of the doctor…

How was she going to tell him the bad news?

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Review Review! This is my first Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction! I did a little research about the time period, but if I get something wrong, please tell me! I know the story seems a little vague at the moment, but it gets better!


	2. Chapter 2: Scotch

Hey everyone! Here is the second chapter! Hopefully, my writing hasn't slowly died the more I write... Sorry it takes so long to update these chapters!

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Chapter Two: Scotch

"John. John. John." A hand softly shook his shoulder. "John." The soothing voice started to grow irritated. "John!" The addressed body rolled to the other side of the creaking bed, dangerously teetering near the edge.

Mary sighed.

It was still rather dark outside. Clouds skewed the sun from its daily job and it threatened to rain. Drizzle, at least. The room was spotless, not a speck of dirt, not a crumb on the floor. The pictures on the wall were perfectly placed, artistically straightened, pencils were in their proper place. Clothes were folded or hung to dry outside, although Mary knew she would need to take them down soon, by the looks of the weather. Her properly fashioned blond hair was held in a tight bun, the governess absent-mindedly played with the gold band and the giant jewel that was on her finger, a courtesy of Holmes' surprising donation.

She scowled a little at the thought of Sherlock Holmes. At first, she was intrigued; he had the façade of a charming, although a little eccentric, man. His brown locks smoothed and gelled back, he looked intelligent, refined, and courteous at least. She, unfortunately, had judged wrong. The moment he had opened his mouth and began to guess her past, she knew he was the opposite of her Dear John.

Complete, complete opposite. He had no manners, rude in public, unrefined, arrogant, had an ego bigger than Great Britain, and most of all, he was childish. Mary could easily tell that he refused to let Watson leave his side, whether in business or in personal matters. Watson, on the other hand seemed ready to let go… well, she hoped he was. The governess' sight swept to her sleeping and unaware husband that was about to fall of the bed. John had been so distracted lately. Mary wrinkled her forehead in thought. Staring out the window, she placed a dainty hand on her cheek. John was so unresponsive after the first two weeks.

At first, he was exuberant; he would smile in that genuine way that made her heart skip a beat. He would take her around the American shops, asking for sweets, buying her beautiful trinkets, the sun would shine brightly on the two happy newlyweds. She would lock her arms with his, happily leaning on him as they strolled through the busy sidewalks. Despite the anti-immigration tendencies that America was going through, the couple remained relatively unharmed, and she was grateful for that when John had held her hand firmly, protectively.

The Gilded Age, was what they called it. Despite the indescribable poverty in some parts of the country, others were prosperous and filled with wonderful riches and discoveries. Modern industry was blooming rapidly and the new innovation and inspiration flowed through the rich air. The couple had taken their time to explore the nooks and crannies of the city and they had a grand time. Yet.

Yet.

After the first two weeks, she began to notice that he lacked luster in his steps. He would often stare off into the distance, wringing his hands in a nervous fashion. She would notice his forced smiles and he was often distracted, having her trapped in one-sided conversations. She could tell there was something bothering him. Yet, whenever she attempted to ask, he would brush it away, cheerfully changing the subject to anything but his problems.

_THUMP. CRACK_.

Groan. Watson's palms flew to his nose, trying to stem the steady flow of blood, his face scrunched up in pain after the initial greeting with the hard wood floor.

"Good morning John." The normally refined doctor raised his hand in hello before jerking the cartilage back into place. Emitting another painful groan and another sickening crack. Watson, now awake, turned toward Mary with a ridiculous amount of cloth covering his face and smiled lightly towards her, well, tried to over all of the blood stained fabric.

"mphornin phlov." _Morning Love_, his greeting muffled by the cloth. His wife chuckled at him, a tiny grin on her face. He looked absurd with his disheveled chocolate hair, twisted night shirt that was almost on backwards, a bundle of white covering his attempted smile, and blue eyes hazy from pain, sleep, and some confusion.

He stumbled slightly and dropped back onto the creaking bed.

As John tended to his nose, he noticed the tension that began to build in the air, radiating a pregnant, awkward pause from Mary. He pointedly avoided her eyes, beginning to feel the starting symptoms of nervousness fluttering in his stomach. What did he manage to do wrong?

She waited for his nose to stop bleeding before she addressed him lightly,

"John."

"Yes Dear?"

"I think that we need to discuss something."

_Oh No._

"Go on." The doctor shifted positions anxiously on the bed; eyes roaming everywhere except for her face.

"You've been so distracted lately, I'm beginning to worry about you. It's been three weeks since we've left England, and at first you were quite pleasant, delighted even."

The governess paced back and forth, her dress sweeping the floor as she moved,

"And yet now, you can't even pay attention to your own wedded wife. Don't you understand John? We are family now. You must understand that we need to start thinking of our future together. Yet, we haven't spoken about any plans past this holiday we're on, we haven't spoken on matters on some of the most important things. Your heirs to the family. In fact, I believe most couples dutifully begin discussing, and rather happily I might add, after the first week of their marriage. Two Months John, Two Months!" She resisted the urge to throw her hands up in the hair, and settled at wringing her hands as much as humanly possible. A lady must always keep her poise, and anger was neither elegant nor lady-like.

Watson bored holes into the floor, his movements dead still, almost a serene relaxed. If not for his eyes panicking, thinking, Mary would not be able to tell he was panicking or anxious at all.

Despite her husband's often emotion filled expressions, sometimes he got the most blank and cold facade that scared her, almost hurt her, he reminded her of the heartless detective.

However, she knew him well enough and at the moment she could see the gears in his brain lurching for an answer, possibly a lie, to satisfy her. She sighed.

"Well dear? What is the matter?" Inquiring, pressing.

"The weather seems very cloudy today, doesn't it?"

"Don't avoid the subject"

"Have I told you how lovely you are today?"

"Diverting from the question will not help you."

"Where do you want to go today?"

"John."

"Should I bring the umbrella? It looks like it will rain."

"John."

"Let me go and fix myself up."

"John."

"I must really tend to my nose."

"John!" Mary narrowed her eyes into a dangerous glare, immediately quieting her husband with murderous intent. He withered at the simmering stare she was giving him, and immediately bowed his head in a sigh. There had been so much sighing lately.

"John… What is wrong? Is it something I did? Tell me and I'll try my best to fix it. Just tell me what is the problem." She gently sat down next to him, placing a smooth hand over his nimble doctor fingers.

"Holmes." Watson mumbled. Plain and simple. He was worried about Holmes. Mary narrowed her eyes once more, cringing inwardly at the mention of his name.

"What about Holmes honey? Aren't you having a grand time here? In America? Away from dangerous business and the constant persistence of deadly criminals?" She pressed. Especially Him.

"Holmes can't take care of himself without me. He'll starve himself when he's solving cases, he doesn't care to keep his room straight at all. He doesn't bother going outside for fresh air. His windows are never open. And if he's gone on another case and he somehow gets into trouble, like he always does, without his revolver, then I won't be there to deliver it to him. What if he leaves the stove on again? I can't just leave him locked in his room, under the influence of who knows what drug, unshaven, unwashed, and most likely lying on the floor depressed because of our little trifle. I hadn't even said a farewell and left him drugged on his bed because I knew he would follow us."

Watson rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration, settling himself further into the mattress. He couldn't look at her now, he know she was glaring down at him like the sun in the summer. Heated. Unmerciful.

"John, Holmes is a hopeless case! You just said so yourself. He needs to grow and learn on his own two feet that you cannot be there at his beck and call, serving his every whim like some kind of servant! Why does he not hire one himself? My God he has enough money to supply himself with all of the poor women and young maids he needs-"

The doctor coldly rose to his feet, a forced twitch of the lips.

She had said too much.

His stoic countenance silenced her immediately, indeed he was a refined gentlemen; the flick of his graceful fingers and a slightly raised eyebrow sent a chill down her spine. Icy eyes pierced her. The war veteran was angry, but his expression was nonexistent, a perfect façade. The mask of someone heartless, steeled to the countless deaths of his comrades. She wished she hadn't said anything.

His hand pondered on his cane that was lying to the side of the wooden carved frame holding up the bed. Snatching it sharply, Watson rose and walked swiftly away from his crumpling wife.

"I need a little walk, care to join me my dear?" Mary shook her head as she looked to the floor, she could detect the false cheerfulness in his voice.

"Alright then." And the door slammed shut behind him, shaking the walls and a couple of paintings.

The governess reached to her tight bun and undid the clean knot she had put it in, letting the blond hair loose to her below her shoulders. She tucked a strand of lock behind her ear and sighed, sitting timidly on the bed.

Maybe it was time she tried a different method of approach.

Weeks. It had been weeks without a sign of Holmes. Irene knew she should not worry. He was Sherlock Holmes after all. Yet she couldn't help it. He had a pernicious tendency for dangerous cases, anything that required some form of shooting his revolver, fighting his way through trouble, and exercising his genius was a case he would no doubt take. Lying on the luxurious bed, she rolled until she faced one of the overly decorated, gold-laced walls.

She had spent a lot of time on her hotel bed, their room, lately. Although it was her own decision to call it "their room" she hoped that Holmes would agree to the title. Yet sometimes she could not decipher his emotions from his face. In fact, most of the time the seemingly cold-hearted bastard was just that, a cold-hearted bastard.

"Stop talking to yourself." She mumbled. She did that too often anyways.

A knock on the door pulled her out of her swimming thoughts and she rose lazily from the soft blankets.

"Come in." She brushed herself off to look presentable. Despite her ex-opera star status, she still had the habits of a high society woman.

The door creaked open and a deranged Lestrade, disheveled beyond sober, stumbled into the room. He hiccupped half way before rolling his eyes towards the silently amused woman.

"Miss Adler. We might have found a clue to Holmes' disappearance." Irene stood immediately, wary of the tipping inspector that was leaning on one of the decorated walls.

"We found a document in his room, it was stuck behind one of the shelves, the medicine and alcohol cabinet to be exact. We have reason to believe that Holmes may have left it for us to find, as it was very cleverly hidden." He hiccupped again, sliding down to the carpeted floor. Irene smiled at the good news and moved over to shake the inspector awake.

"Inspector Lestrade, Lestrade. Why are you currently intoxicated?" The man blinked before trying to focus on her.

"We were…celebrating."

"With what exactly?"

"Found a nice… bottle, filled with scotch… felt a little strange. Only had one drink…"

"Strange, only one?" She knitted her eyebrows together. Strange?

"What was strange about it?" she continued to press.

"…"

"Inspector?"

"…"

"Inspector!" She shook him gently. He didn't respond, and so she took him by the shoulders and shook him as vigorously as possible. Even slapped his cheeks a bit. But it would not do. He had gone to the land of the dreams far too quickly. Irene propped the inspector up on the wall and decided to get to 221B quickly, excited by the discovery of a clue that would help lead the desperate team to Holmes. She quickly made herself presentable, dawning her favorite silken red dress, she pattered out of the room and into the crowded streets of London.

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A dark figure crept into the lavished room. Dodging the table full of assorted bottles of wine, the shadow stepped over the unconscious inspector on the floor.

"Must have had too much to drink," it thought.

Moving and weaving through the darkness in the room, careful that nothing heard its steps while it crept towards her bed.

A small pouch full of arsenic powder was enough for this task. The figure opened the brown bag, pulling out one of it's vials of water, he mixed the powder in, careful that it did not touch his skin. He poured the mixture into the needle he carried in his pocket, filling it until it was ready, he stole one of her unopened favorite wines, he was sure she would drink it. Injecting the arsenic mixture into the bottle, he placed everything back where it was.

Suddenly, he remembered something, reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a silver chain holding a beautiful dark green emerald, shining even in the dull light, embedded in the center of two snakes entwined. Placing it on her pillow, his dark eyes scanned over the room, making sure there were no traces of his presence.

He snuck back out of the room, giving Lestrade a good pat on the head when he walked by.

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_Step step step. _She ran.

Mrs. Hudson ran, chasing after the unidentifiable man in a black overcoat, a peculiar hat on his head who had just turned the corner in an alleyway off Baker Street.

Her narrow and pointed heels clicking on the dirty streets she pounded on. Despite her old age, Mrs. Hudson had always retained a healthy physique, enough to run after a thief who had snuck into 221B and made off with their first clue to Holmes' disappearance. She did not recognize him, merely because she did not get the chance to see his face; he fled from the room the moment she saw him, jumping from the window Holmes' often used to escape, she had no choice but follow him. Not that she was incapable of doing so.

The clouds above her swollen and threatened to rain, ruining her dress, but she didn't care. This thief was not getting away. She narrowed her eyes, one hand holding up her skirt to keep it from getting dirty and make sure she didn't trip. Another hand was propelling her forward as she yelled at the man to stop.

He paid her no attention. His run smooth, collected, graceful. Not like any man who was running away from an angry landlady and possibly the Scotland Yard, if they got out of their drunken stupor.

He leapt over a couple of crates and Mrs. Hudson nimbly followed him, not skipping a beat as the assailant gracefully landed on the dusty pavement.

Turn. Turn. Left. Into the alleyway. Steps. Leap. Right.

The man flew across the streets, like he had wings on his feet but Mrs. Hudson was persistent. She could almost hear his scowl in annoyance as she pursued him, never letting up. The wind whipping their faces as they dodged startled citizens.

Holmes, she needed to get this document for Holmes. In fact, none of the officers were sober enough to think of reading the old sheet of paper before they had passed out. They found it while drinking on the job, the fools. They can't do anything right without proper guidance from Holmes.

"Stop! Thief!" She called, panting and slightly hoarse.

The figure in front of her unrelenting his pace and turned one last corner, stepping onto a heap of barrels, using them as steps. The man wearing the black overcoat and peculiar hat jumped to reach a pipe above him, easily pulling himself up and then ran along the tiles of the house like a feline cleverly escaping rabid dogs.

He jumped from roof to roof, making sure to loosen the already dangerous tiles from their place; he flew away, leaping in bounds with the cloak flying behind him almost like a cape, his peculiar hat staying snug on his head, she watched him jump away, she watched him steal the very first clue they had to Holmes, she watched and as she looked on, she noticed a flash of slightly dirty white from underneath his lengthy coat.

Familiar... but before she could collect her thoughts. She was interrupted.

"Mrs. Hudson?" The landlady swerved about in her spot to face behind her, panting hard and feeling faint, she encountered the worried face of Miss Adler.

"Miss Adler! Why are you here?"

"I heard from the Inspector that he found a document hidden in Holmes' room?"

"A thief just made off with the document! I pursued him thus far, but I'm afraid I lost him when he began to climb the rooftops."

A pregnant pause awkwardly filled the conversation, as Irene stood in shock, too quick for disappointment to sink in just yet. Mrs. Hudson panted more, still catching her breath, she really was feeling quite faint.

"Stolen?"

"Stolen…"

"Did you manage to see his face?"

"No, by the time I found him, he was already in flight."

"Anything particular that you can remember about him?"

"Nothing but that he was wearing a black overcoat, and a peculiar black cap."

"Is that all?" Irene paced slightly, back and forth.

"Yes, yes that's all that comes to mind—wait…" Mrs. Hudson's eyes lit up, "I remember a familiar piece of white clothing that he was wearing, although I can't place it. It was slightly dirty from what looked like the soot from the chimneys."

"Can you remember more about this clothing?"

Mrs. Hudson paused to think, attempting to recollect her slowly blurring thoughts.

"Nothing at this particular moment." She sighed a bit, but held back when she saw Irene's sharp eyes inquisitively scoping the area.

"Where is the Scotland Yard? I would assume that they would have immediately attempted to capture the thief."

"As drunk as the beggars near the Opium dens." She scowled.

"Inspector was drunk as well, however, I recall he said that there was something strange about the alcohol he was drinking…"

"Something strange? As in what?"

"I'm not particularly sure, to be truthful. However, he did state that he only had one drink before he started to feel the intoxication invade his person."

"Peculiar." Mrs. Hudson tapped her arms in annoyance, still disappointed by the unfortunate escape of the thief.

Irene began to think back to the façade of the inspector. Pale face, drunken state, a wobbled gait, tinges of white on the fingertips, a quick celebratory drink and only one, scotch, dilated pupils.

Irene stopped to a halt, grabbing the attention of the landlady standing beside her. There was a high possibility that someone, possibly the thief had slipped a sedative drug into the bottle of scotch they had been celebrating with, which would explain the severe drunkenness of the entire Scotland Yard that was currently occupying 221B in piles of sleeping bodies.

But why would some thief make off with a document left by Holmes? It could possibly lead as a clue to his disappearance, the document could have had important information about those who were targeting him. He did write that she and Watson were "in trouble." There were endless possibilities to the thief's motives, and she knew not where to start.

Irene furrowed her eyebrows, worried, thinking, but most of all wishing albeit quietly in her heart, that Holmes was still alive somehow.

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And the plot twists seem to never end! :) The story might be a little lost in the beginning, but it will take shape later on.

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	3. Chapter 3: Serpents In The Nest

Thank You Everyone for Reviewing!! You've helped encourage me to write more! As I am a lazy lazy person.

So here is your third chapter, Enjoy.

Chapter Three: Serpents In The Nest

There was not a cloud in the heavens. The sky reflected the ocean's azure waters perfectly, resulting in an almost artificial blue that coated the vast expanse of England's natural ceiling. The sun shone happily upon the citizens that were dressed spectacularly in honor of the beautiful day.

On the top of a large grassy hill filled with swan ponds near the valleys and ducks rolling on the surface of the water, was a splendid mansion. The building expanded far, acres upon acres of Victorian architecture. Decorated windowsills, magnificent gargoyles and elegant buttresses structured more of its' beauty. The gardens surrounding it were waving in the winding patches of lavenders, tulips, and roses that lined the trail. Cherry blossoms fell away from their trees, raining down upon any who stroll through the natural pathways. A large stream of water divided the gardens into sections of intricate and delicate knots, the water on the surface rippling from the comfortably breezy day.

A carriage strolled up the long trail to the large ivy covered iron gates that were already open for the visitor. The coachman that was sitting on the perch pulled the leather reins of the horses, soothing them with gentle noises. The decorated carriage soon stopped, and before the coachman could jump down from his position, the door opened and the visitor gave the man a kind smile. Paying his due to the thankful coachman, the guest elegantly strode through the gates and knocked on the door.

"Who is it?" a timid and thick French accent sounded from behind the oaken doors.

"Mr. Williams asked for me. Miss Bellenger, by now you must surely know my voice." His voice was indeed unforgettable; Rich and as smooth as silk, handsome enough to swoon any lady off her feet.

"Ah! Excuse me for my frank rudeness Dr. Edwards!" The doors opened and Edwards walked in, smiling at the French maid that always greeted him whenever he was invited to the mansion.

"Thank you." And he made his way up the red lavishly carpeted stairs to the third floor, the master's office.

Passing the magnificent chandeliers, hand-painted portraits by the master of the house himself, and a grand piano that perched proudly in the large music room. He climbed up another set of stairs to finally reach the polished wooden doors of the Master's office. He knocked once, and then pushed open the doors.

"Punctual as always Dr. Edwards. How has your business been? Your occupation suiting you well?" Cigar smoke drifted in the large room, swirling like a cloud around Mr. Williams' soft black locks. A small pair of glasses placed on his nose, he was just as attractive as the famed Dr. Edwards with his long silk blond hair, pearly white teeth, and sturdy, tall frame.

Edwards scowled.

"I detest your habits in cigars, you seem to smoke those blasted sticks more than you ever have. Some trade issue on your mind?" He completely ignored Williams' greeting, knowing they were, although friendly, also cheerfully fake.

Williams sighed and put out the cigar, giving a pointed stare at Edwards who ignored the man's strikingly green eyes.

"So, dear friend, has Evan agreed to the mission at hand?" A calculated stare at Williams tapping fingers betrayed his friendly mask. He was anxious.

"Yes yes, he has agreed to our proposal. However, he does have some requirements in place or else he will decline whenever he deems it unnecessary."

"Ah." A nod of understanding, the tapping stopped.

"So what is it he wants?" William inclined his head slightly, his jet-black hair shifted to the side in a smooth fashion.

"He asks for his own methods of… dealing with the little problem." Edwards carefully paused, searching for a euphemism.

Williams froze and caught Edward's blue eyes.

"His own methods? What would that include exactly?"

"I am not too sure of that. He was not particularly clear when he mentioned it. Nor had I dared to press him, you understand how temperamental he can be whenever he's questioned too much about his skill or his ways." Edwards shifted positions and sat on one of the familiar and luxurious armchairs he usually chose.

"He was not clear? Bother, I knew he would resort to his own methods, yet I was hoping that just this once he would pursue his mission in a… less violent manner." Williams placed his fingers on the bridge of his nose, rubbing away the tension.

"You know deep down in your soul. That is not a possibility." Williams chuckled slightly at that fact.

"Indeed, after knowing the man for several years, I would have given up hope in his insane ways."

"He does have a promising amount of skill, despite his young age." Edwards continued.

"Nay, I must argue that 20 is not a young age. I am but 32."

"And I, 30."

"And thus, he cannot be counted as young anymore."

"I wish I could always count him as such." The blond man retorted.

"Don't be such a stickler Edwards, you raised him almost like a son despite your age differences and you have raised him well. But now you must let him go."

"I am."

"No, you are not. He's your nephew, not your son, dear friend." Williams advised.

"So what? He still has not learned the business of our trade. We began the organization several years ago. Yet even then, he has had a ravaging thirst for violence. I fear for his sanity occasionally."

"You're not too sane yourself."

"Well neither are you."

"..." Edwards sat smug at Williams' unresponsiveness.

The black haired businessman stood from his cushioned chair behind the large oaken desk and grabbed his coat, cane, and hat.

"Well, either way we can trust him to carry out the plan."

"Indeed."

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The days in Chicago were finally starting to lighten up, although it was beginning to be around 7:30, there were a few stray puffs of cloud that floated lazily in the skies. The sun outside was halfway through its descent and it casted hues of red and purple across the skies. The beauty seemed to be a symbol of hope, a better future for the couple that strolled down the sidewalks of the bustling city. However, despite the captivating scenery, Watson and Mary were not too delighted.

"John, I want to go back to the hotel, my feet are beginning to tire and I wish to sit down."

"…"

"John! Pay attention!" The addressed gentleman jerked in surprise when his wife lightly slapped his face.

"Oh, pardon me my dear," he hastened to cover his astonishment.

"Yes, indeed, pardon you."

"I shall try to pay more rapt attention. Now, what was it that you said?"

"I said nothing."

"No I'm sure that you had voiced something, please Mary, please tell me." John begged slightly, not wanting to miss something crucially important.

"I said nothing John, you would know that if you had not been thinking of that dreaded detective otherwise, of which I am sure you were."

Watson sighed once more.

It had been like this ever since their fight mornings ago. He would become distracted and then Mary would catch him in the act of worrying or daydreaming of his best friend and how his condition was. Immediately after that, Mary would become temperamental and then shrug off any of his pleas to speak with him. She would turn her head sharply away, so that he could only have view of her golden hair wrapped in a tight proper bun.

Yet despite their quarrels, he had managed to convince his lovely wife to take a stroll outside during this beautiful evening. _Hopefully_, he thought, _I may be able to reconcile with her._ Strengthening his resolution once more, he set out to pay attention to her words, her soft skin, her beautiful dress and currently tightly pressed lips as she set her gaze straightly forward, determined to ignore her husband. Would the sighs never end? Apparently not, as he did so again.

The people around them began to move a bit faster, some began to run, others whispered excitedly, rushing towards the middle of the square. Watson, noticing the crowd's strange behavior, stopped a gentleman— Gentleman, in the lightest terms possible as he was dressed in positively dirty clothes, smelled of soot and metal, and had greasy hair, but the Doctor, being used to the battlefield and the dirty clients of London, paid no mind.

"Kind sir, would you take it out of your time to inform me of what event is occurring?" Mary began to loop her arm around his when the man's gaze moved from Watson's person to Mary's body, looking her up and down. She felt intimidated. Watson noticed her immediate response and held her a little bit closer. The man smirked.

"Haven't you heard? There's the Haymarket Speeches today! They're being held here in Haymarket Square. You know, normally I don't agree with those damned anarchists, but those policemen just piss me off."

The man spat at the imaginary policeman standing to his right, and then grinning, he continued, "You should come! The more the better, you know?" and he ran off after another man greeted him heartedly and urged him that they were about to be late.

Mary and Watson's eyes connected, speaking silently about whether they should join. It sounded like an opportunity for disaster for them. The wise couple agreed that they would definitely not participate in this riot and as they began to walk away, Watson hit a little body.

A small girl was sobbing into her sleeves, hiccupping, and sitting on the floor after their initial impact. Before Watson could address her, she began to cry for her mother, who had apparently lost her in the running crowd of people.

"Mama! Mama! Where ah' you?! Mama!" Fat tears rolling down her cheeks, Watson kneeled down to pick the child off the ground and comfort her.

"There there, your mother will find you very soon child. I'm positive she is looking for you now."

The young girl immediately stopped her crying and giggled.

"You talk funny, mister." Watson smiled.

"Oh Anna! Anna! There you are!" A woman ran towards Anna, her running frantic when she found her daughter in the arms of a stranger.

"How did you find her?" The lady addressed Watson.

"I'm afraid I was not paying adequate enough attention, and I ran into your little daughter."

"He talks funny Mama!" The mother smiled and turned her kind smile to Watson.

"Thank you sir."

"My pleasure." And she walked off, her child in her arms waving back to him. Watson fondly waved back, looking to his wife. Missing.

Missing.

"Mary? Mary! Mary where are you?" Watson began to panic, eyes scanning the cloud of people that were surrounding a group of people standing in the center, waiting for the crowds to quiet down. The colors blurring as people shouted, whispered, ran, walked, paced, stood still. Mary? No. No she's not Mary. Mary? Mary! Mary!

Her golden hair still in its perfectly tight bun, waving the handkerchief he had presented to her while they were still dating.

"John! John!" Watson ran over to his wife.

"What-" he was interrupted.

"Oh, I hope you didn't mind that I stole your little girlfriend. I think she should see this." The man from before was smirking at Watson, holding the wrist of his captive wife.

The war veteran clenched his fist, containing his anger under the ice-cold pools of his eyes. He glared daggers at the man, shamelessly attempting to flirt with his clearly disgusted wife. Placing a firm hand on his shoulder, Watson tightened his grip and forcefully dragged the man away with amazing strength; his elegant fingers were steel clasps that held hard enough to bruise the dirty worker.

"Fuck!" The man swore in pain and struggled, only to have the vice-grip tighten.

"Dear sir, if you could kindly leave my gentle wife alone?"

"Fuck man! Let me go!" but Watson did not yield.

"What say you? Leave us be?"

"Agh! It hurts!"

"Well?"

"Yes yes! Now let go!" The doctor released his swearing captive who was nursing his aching shoulder.

"You'll regret this-"

Screams came from the crowd.

"Cops!"

The policemen had surrounded them, silently, all holding some sort of weapon in order to protect themselves. Some holding guns. Some holding bats.

"Hold on people-" the current speaker who was standing on the hay wagon held his hands up in an attempt to keep the peace.

But someone from the crowd punched a policeman in the face and the crowd went wild. Everyone was shouting. Cops hadn't implemented their weapons yet, on order of the Mayor.

Watson and Mary started to escape from the madness. Their eyes connected once more, and they ran, they ran and they ran. But the more they tried to run, the more others pushed back. The couples hands clasped firmly together in a lover's hold, they continued to push and shove and run. But as they were pushing, Watson saw him.

He saw him.

A young gentleman, perhaps in his young 20's, wearing a fine brown wool overcoat, a gold chain strewn through the clothing, shined leather shoes, soft brown hair that came past the nape of his neck, sharp intelligent eyes, and a silver necklace with an emerald center hanging proudly over his head. He was smirking directly at Watson, a malicious grin that made the doctor's spine shiver. He knew that gaze, the foreboding signs that something horrible was going to happen and that the young man was the cause of it. Smirking.

There was an explosion.

Debris flew everywhere, men, women, and children were screaming, some in pain some in panic. Smoke flew into the hair, suffocating those near the bomb. The pushing became frantic, blurs of people trying to escape, some who were unfortunate enough to trip, fall, or be pushed over were trampled to death. Guns started firing, smoke was everywhere and obscuring vision, there were cries of help, cries of injury, cries of a little girl calling her lost mother, trampled under the crowds.

"Mama! Mama!"

The hand that was holding his had slipped, his wife tripped, falling to the ground.

Mary's hair came undone, slowly spreading and covering her face, her surprised and scared expression, her mouth opening to scream, her eyes that pierced through Watson's heart. She fell to the ground that was highlighted by the very last rays of red sunlight, the dirty tiles accepting her as feet began to pound around her, desperate to get out. She curled herself into a ball, hoping that none would kick her in their process to escape.

A boot cracked onto her vulnerable ankle, the sickening sound of breaking bones echoed into Watson's ears, her lips parted in a silent scream as her head flew upwards, her eyes wide and tearing, her hands flew to her ankle, shock trembling her fingers. The sunset was almost over, the dark red engulfing, capturing her beautiful face twisted in shock in agony. She shook, and another foot connected with her back, another to her hands, a shoe to her skull, and she was caught under the flurry of stampeding, her scream breaking through her lungs.

Watson _moved_. He threw people aside, he pushed officers who were shouting in his face, he moved, he ran to her.

"_Mary!_ Mary!!!!!" He screamed her sweet name, he pulled her broken body off the dirty concrete, her eyes open and moist with tears mixed with the blood flowing from her head to the bottom of her chin. She was still conscious, she was still alive, she was still awake,

"Mary" He sighed in relief, but then began to worry as her eyes stared vacantly at the veteran. Empty and emotionless, where had his beautiful Mary gone?

"Mary?" His voice was soft, loving, caring, anxious, worried, panicked. But there was no response; she continued to stare vacantly at his person. He fumbled to grasp her wrist, ignoring the screaming all around him and the gunshots that littered the air. He was trembling with every fiber of his being, trembling when he felt for her pulse. But she had none.

Shatter.

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Deep inside the heart on an individual, something jerked. Something painful. The head swerved in confusion, scanning the dark scenery that filled the senses. A sigh, it was nothing but a small pain, must have been from too much Opium.

Inside the shadows of the wooden shack, the figure reached into a pocket and fiddled around for the object of massive importance: A pendant. Fumbling around in the dark for the jewelry, long hands finally remembered that the pendant was inside the inner pocket of one of the weatherworn overcoats.

The shadow grasped the item out of its hiding place. Winding silver and snake fangs, entwined like lovers gleaming in the little light that found its way through the rotted cracks of the wooden planks. The emerald, which was nested in the middle of the serpents, displayed its beauty proudly to no one but the figure. Yes, this would be a very crucial part of the plan. Indeed. The individual placed the pendant onto the small table and began to pace back and forth, a gentle rocking notion that came with the habit of wearing out floors.

"Now", the shadow thought, "I shall need a bit of assistance."

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